I hate to admit it, but I feel sorry for Andrew Breitbart’s wife. No, really, I do. Mr. Breitbart is such a quivering doughboy of outrage that she can’t even go to brunch with him in Santa Monica without him making an utter fool of himself.
So, here are Andy and Mrs. Andy at Shutters in Santa Monica, unable to afford a full meal but splurging for some dip and a couple of margaritas.
Soon after our drinks arrived, a group of mostly-college-age kids began walking by in large bunches, many in tandem holding large rope segments in groups of 20 or so. They clearly were marching for something they considered important.
As they passed, the protesters stared sourly at the second story where we sat. Fellow patrons wondered aloud what this now massive conga line was all about. About 300 people into the procession, I spotted a sign that had “war” written in it. One T-shirt read, “Stop forcing our children to be your soldiers.”
It’s a voluntary army, you stupid kids!
Of course, you can see where this is going. Breitbart starts to seethe that these dirty fucking hippies are just like everybody else in Hollywood, always trying to ruin his tequila buzz with their liberal antics.
Knowing that Susie considers a true escape a day when politics isn’t on the menu, I kept my observations to myself.
Susan, no doubt, is beginning to regret that she didn’t put on a burqa before heading out with Andy.
I even restrained my natural impulse to run down to the sand to go mano a mano with the rabble-rousers.
The idea of Andy imagining himself going all Hulk against a thousand or so protesters is really quite tragic, but, fortunately for Andy, the probability of him abandoning an alcoholic beverage to go tussle with a crowd of demonstrators is about the same as the probability that he will one day visit a barber or wash and iron a shirt before putting it on again.
Then came the liberal fist of a doom, the gesture so evil, so powerful, that Andy could no longer restrain himself and knew that it was time to exhibit his brave and manly middle finger to Hollywood and the rest of the world:
But when one dude raised his fist like runners Tommie Smith and John Carlos did at the 1968 Mexico City Olympics, I could not hold myself back. I jumped from my seat and bolted to the center of the balcony, where the American flag waved furiously in a now-harsh wind. Positioned next to Old Glory, I countered the young punk and reached out my right arm directing my middle finger in his direction.
As soon as my finger was raised, a phalanx of photographers began snapping away at the white middle-aged man wearing a white LaCoste shirt next to the old red, white and blue. Cognizant of the power of imagery, I owned the moment and refused to back down. The fist wielder immediately dropped his arm. I clearly had won and envisioned photos of the anti-antiwar protester making the front pages of the Los Angeles Times.
I think that’s what’s called going Mitty.1
Happily for Andy, but quite sadly for Sadly, No!, there is no record of this image of an enraged dumpy-assed white guy standing on the balcony at Shutters flipping everyone the bird.2
Here’s the punch line: several days later, Andy gets an email from one of the photographers wondering why a march “in solidarity for the children abducted and forced to fight for the LRA in Northern Uganda and more recently in the Congo” caused Andy to get so worked up. The photographer continued:
I believe most people in America are in agreement that human slavery, genocide and child soldiers are a terrible thing. This event was hardly controversial. The protest marched by ‘Shutters on the Beach.’ After reviewing the photographs I was taking for the event and confirming the facts (you were in Santa Monica at the date and time) I realized you were flipping the protesters off. I am curious to why this is the case.
Well the answer is simple: because Andy is a tosspot who sees a liberal conspiracy behind everything from today’s weather to the placement of forks to the left of the dinner plate. That’s why.
“The cannonading has got the wind up in young Raleigh, sir,” said the sergeant. Captain Mitty looked up at him through tousled hair. “Get him to bed,” he said wearily. “With the others. I’ll fly alone.” “But you can’t, sir,” said the sergeant anxiously. “It takes two men to handle that bomber and the Archies are pounding hell out of the air. Von Richtman’s circus is between here and Saulier.” “Somebody’s got to get that ammunition dump,” said Mitty. “I’m going over. Spot of brandy?” He poured a drink for the sergeant and one for himself. War thundered and whined around the dugout and battered at the door. … He poured another brandy and tossed it off. “I never see a man could hold his brandy like you, sir,” said the sergeant. “Begging your pardon, sir.” Captain Mitty stood up and strapped on his huge Webley-Vickers automatic. “It’s forty kilometers through hell, sir,” said the sergeant. … Walter Mitty walked to the door of the dugout humming “Auprès de Ma Blonde.” He turned and waved to the sergeant. “Cheerio!” he said. . .
2The real question this incident raises is why someone like Breitbart, who is about as photogenic as road kill after two days in August on a highway in Georgia, is always leaping up and throwing himself in front of a camera lens.